Page 4 of The Quest for Excalibur
Archfedd ran to her friend, and they embraced. “No boys today,” Archfedd announced with glee. “They’re doin’ their lessons.” The two girls giggled, and hurried to settle themselves to play with their dolls on the thick rugs that lay spread around the brazier.
In another world, these soft, pale-faced rag dolls would probably have been Barbies, but here, little girls like these were content with what they had. Maia had hand stitched the dolls for them a year or so ago, and, at my suggestion, added a varied selection of clothes, proving that the dressing and undressing of dolls amused little girls of any time period.
Coventina settled herself on a stool beside mine. A tall woman, with dark hair already streaked with gray, it took her a moment or two to find a comfortable position. Reaghan had been born by an improvised Caesarean-section that might have saved her mother’s life but had left her with the constant pain of damaged nerve endings.
“That’s better now.” She heaved a sigh as she unfolded the sewing she’d brought, a contented smile on her homely face as she surveyed our two little daughters. “’Tis painin’ me a bit today. I think ’tis the cold and damp of winter that do it.”
For a moment I watched her, my brow furrowed. The lines about her eyes softened as her needle darted back and forth through the cloth. Heaving a sigh, I picked up my own sewing from where it lived on the table behind me, and viewed it with disfavor. I was supposed to be working on a shirt for Amhar, who was fast outgrowing the ones he had. Not my favorite pastime.
For a moment or two we worked in companionable silence. But not for long.
“Ouch!” I sucked my left forefinger, into which I’d just jabbed my needle, tasting blood. “It’s no use. I don’t feel like sewing today.”
Maia, sitting stitching behind us, badly disguised a snort of laughter. Most of the clothes my children wore had been made by her, as by the time I finished anything, it often no longer fitted, and more than likely was decorated with splodges of my own blood. War-wounds, Coventina called them, knowing the constant battle I had with a needle.
Now she looked up with a smile from the beautiful embroidery she was working on a shirt for Reaghan. “Do youeverfeel like sewing? There’s not much else to do on a day like today. Not for us women.”
I scowled. Dark Age winters could definitely drag– especially for women. With a pang of longing, I glanced across at the table where my book lay. I had to suppress the itch to open it and add some more to my history. How rude would that be when Coventina had come expressly to keep me company?
A sigh escaped me. “I’d like to be outside. Even if it’s pouring with rain, it’s got to be better than being cooped up in here with the brazier smoking like this.”
With little draught to draw it through the thatch and out into the wet air, a heavy pall of woodsmoke hung in the high rafters. Not for the first time I wondered how difficult it would be to introduce a chimney into the great hall, as well as one here in our chamber. However, as working in a library wasn’t much of a preparation for building chimneys, especially not in highly combustible thatched wooden buildings, maybe this wasn’t one of my best ideas. I’d give that one a miss.
Coventina shook her head, laughing. “You do say some funny things. You’d catch your death out there. It’s raining like a waterfall.”
I grimaced and picked up my hated sewing again, the bleeding having stopped. The shirt already had liberal spots of blood from other stabbed digits decorating it, and I didn’t want to add more.
Archfedd had dressed her doll in the pretty blue gown made from the scraps left over from her own– both made by Maia, of course. “The princess is marrying the prince,” she said to Reaghan. “Like in Cind’rella.” She stuck one of the doll’s fat stuffed legs out. “See. She’s got the glass slipper on.”
Reaghan leaned forward to look, her small, freckled nose wrinkling. “No she hasn’t. She’s got a big fat foot like one of the Ugly Sisters.Mydoll’s the princess. See.” She paused, her face falling. “Only, we haven’t got a prince for her to marry.”
“That’s such a lovely story you’ve taught them,” Coventina said. “I don’t know where you get them from. You have such an imagination. Reaghan loves them.” She smiled. “Her favorite’s Rapunzel.”
“I likes Snow White the best,” Maia said, knowing she could speak her mind to both of us. “Because that ole witch what’s mean to her reminds me of the Princess Morgana. Bet she do have a poisoned apple hid somewhere about herself.”
Coventina and I chuckled.
Reaghan glanced up. “My princess is called Rapunzel. Look at her lovely long hair.”
Her doll did indeed have a very long plait made of wool that had been dyed a vibrant yellow.
She jiggled the doll up and down. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, that I may use it as a stair.” She and Archfedd burst into fits of giggles.
The rain rattled on the wooden walls of the Hall, and I shivered. “Maybe you’re right about the weather,” I said, over the heads of the little girls. “But Arthur’s most probably out in it, though, getting soaked to the skin. And Cei.”
Coventina grimaced and nodded, her fingers working automatically, as though she had no need to look at what she was doing. No brown bloodstains on anythingshesewed.
A sudden draught licked around my shoulders, and I shivered again. Arthur and his war band, almost certainly out in this, would be colder, though, and wet. Hopefully, they were already riding back from the south coast where they’d been called to less than a week ago.
Even though we now had a successful messaging service set up between the kingdoms, it irked that I still had no way of finding out my husband’s whereabouts when he was gone from Din Cadan.
“Bloody Saxons, raiding in the winter,” I muttered, under my breath so the girls wouldn’t hear.
Coventina chuckled. “It weren’t like this when they left. ’Twere a bright day as I recall. I daresay that’d be why the Saxons were troublin’ the south coast. I’d guess they’re as fond of pourin’ rain and storms as we are.”
“Bugger.” I sucked a different digit this time, tasting the iron in my blood.
“Bugger,” echoed Archfedd.
